


Sexorcism

by blue_fish



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Community: inception_kink, Exorcism, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-20
Updated: 2011-06-20
Packaged: 2017-10-20 14:01:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/213528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_fish/pseuds/blue_fish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur gets hit by a mack truck. Eames decides that Arthur is cursed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sexorcism

Arthur sits in the hotel room, bleeding. He's got his scowly face on, but Eames can't see it, because Arthur's face is pressed into a hand-towel that is doing little to stop the flow of blood.

"I just don't believe it," Eames says. He wets a second towel under cold water in the hotel sink and wrings it out. "Can't get my head around it. You got hit with a mack truck. You got _run over._ "

"I didd'd ged rud over," Arthur says. "I god clibbed. Fug." He coughs, spits blood into the towel.

But Eames had seen it from a few feet behind Arthur, the truck careening out of control, up onto the curb. He'd nearly pissed himself. Arthur'd dodged at the last possible second. But the mirror had clipped him and sent him flying. The bruising on his arm and back was massive, nearly black. His wee little pixie nose was bleeding everywhere. Eames had set it himself.

"There we are," Eames says, carefully removing the bloody cloth from Arthur's face and replacing it with the next one in a rotating line of many.

"Thags," Arthur says. He rests his elbows on his splayed knees. Blood pours down the front of his white shirt.

"You should tilt your head back," Eames says.

"I'd drowd id by owd blood."

"Ah. Well. Let's have a look then."

Arthur obliges him, gingerly removing the towel as Eames pulls up a chair in front of him and takes a closer look. His nose is swollen, cheeks bruised, eyes red and watering. Mouth red with blood. It looks shocking, but Eames has seen worse. "I hope this doesn't change your pretty face," he says.

Arthur tries to roll his eyes, but winces.

"Here." Eames takes the wet cloth from him and gently, gently, wipes the blood from under his nose, from his lips and chin.

"I hurt," Arthur gripes.

Which, yeah, Eames respects that. A truck had run into him. Anyone else would be whining in a hospital bed and demanding morphine. But this is by far not the worst thing that's happened to Arthur. There was the the gunshot wound, for one. To the thigh, a close call that time. Barbed wire fence escape, scars all over his legs from that one. Set upon by thugs on more than one occasion; once they had broken his arm.

"It's... a lot, if you think about it," Eames says.

"What?"

"You getting hurt."

"It's the job."

Eames frowns at him. "No one else gets it quite so badly as you, Arthur."

Arthur shrugs. Thinks about it for a second. Then shrugs again. "I'b the idforbashud guy. I hold the cards that people wadt."

"The what guy?"

Arthur grits his teeth. "Id. For. Bay. Shud."

"Oh. Information. Yes, but still. It's excessive. It seems as if everyone hurts you all the time. It's out of proportion."

"Your bob's out of broborshud."

"That's as may be."

Arthur just stares at him with watery eyes as he thinks. He looks too young to be so scowly, but of course... once again, he's covered in blood and bruises. Once again, he's broken.

"Remember the job two years ago, Arthur? When your brakes got cut and your car went off the bridge and..."

"Yes," Arthur snaps.

"I just think it's strange."

"Fug by life," Arthur says, again dropping his face into the towel in his hands.

** ** ** **

Two years ago:

Eames had seen the car spinning madly out of control, the one that Arthur was in, and, _fuck, FUCK_ , heading for the bridge. Going over the side.

 _Fuck._

And later, after the blur of jumping after him. Arthur, choking, sputtering, coughing, _breathing_ in Eames's arms.

"Oh darling, darling, christ, darling" Eames babbling to him.

** ** ** **

Seven years ago.

Eames, Mal, Arthur, and Cobb at a cafe. Cobb ordering "un cafe" and setting Mal off into giggles.

Later, Arthur leaping out of his chair, hissing in pain as the boiling water spilled all over his beautiful suit, scalding his beautiful thighs, Eames would later notice. "Mon deiu, mon deiu!" the waitress squealing.

He couldn't fuck Arthur face to face for a week after that.

** ** ** **

Four years ago.

"GET THIS FUCKING THING OFF ME!" Arthur yelling, kicking wildly.

That was because Arthur had leapt out of the window to where Eames had been waiting to meet him after a job gone south. He'd landed in the relatively soft and utterly disgusting rubbish bin.

Unfortunately he'd landed on a feral cat, which had then tried to tear up his calf, scratching and biting all the way.

Ten days of antibiotics for that one.

** ** ** **

"And the wasps, Arthur," Eames says, dabbing at the blood that trickles down to the pretty bow of Arthur's mouth. At least it's slowed down. "You can't have forgotten the wasps."

One sting, yes, all right, that was reasonable. But in one of their many warehouses, Arthur had been checking the ducts for bugs and had found bugs. Literally. And they had found him.

Arthur's poor pretty arm, shoulder, and face, yeah, that one had been pretty bad.

Arthur just scowls harder. "Of course I haved't forgotted."

"I think life hates you," Eames observes.

** ** ** **

"You got shot," Arthur informs him later.

They've moved to the bed now. Arthur is leaning back against the pillows, no longer in danger of drowning in his blood. Eames presses an ice pack softly against his face. The lights are low.

"Getting shot is sort of part of it," Eames says. "It's expected."

"You got kiddapped."

"Hmm. Yes, a few times. Not as badly as you did, though."

** ** ** **

Three years ago.

One of the few times he'd had to actually carry Arthur, that kidnapping. Actually carry him for an extended distance. No car, highways all deserted. Eames, carrying Arthur cradled in his arms, unconscious, battered, dehydrated and having lost about ten pounds.

At the safe house, pacing until Arthur had come around.

** ** ** **

Seven year ago, poisoned by angry, rich, influential ex military types, jimsonweed.

Six months ago, accidentally poisoned. Jimsonweed.

Two months ago, a stack of DVDs, perfectly balanced and nothing to upset them, randomly coming off the shelves and falling onto Arthur's face he he'd reached for them.

Two summers ago...

** ** ** **

"The jellyfish, Arthur?"

"Ugh. Eabes. Everybody has bid stug by jellyfish."

"Arthur. We weren't even at the beach."

** ** ** **

Tear gas. Chloroform. A rare reaction to Somnicin that had caused tremors and nightmares for weeks. (Yusuf had assured them that he _thought_ those effects were temporary. He was _pretty sure._ Though they were terrible. Even as Eames couldn't deny that Arthur writhing and moaning and trembling in his bed was, well, really something, err, quite _else_ to witness, it was still worrying.)

Then there was the ghost.

** ** ** **

"It wasd't a ghost, goddabbit."

"It was, Arthur. There's no other explanation. The house was haunted."

"Eved if it was haudded," Arthur says, "ad i'b dot sayig it was. But if. It would be a boldergeist. Dot a fuggig ghost."

"Either way. It came after you, and only you. It hated you. It's like it... it wanted to punch you in the soul."

** ** ** **

Five years, seven months ago.

It's like the whole house is after Arthur. They're on a job, no warehouse this time, but an abandoned, drafty, creaky piece of shit house that everyone immediately loves. Cobb and Arthur admiring the gothic architecture. Eames just thinking it's really fucking cool and beautiful and spooky, and oh the things he would do to renovate a house as awesome as this.

It's just that the house hates Arthur on sight.

The mold gets to him and by the end of the first day he's wheezing and coughing.

As he's coming into one of the rooms, a door slams shut in his face and he walks straight on up into it.

In a practice run, hooked up to the PASIV, his chair keeps tipping over, kicking him awake and throwing him repeatedly out of the dream.

"Drafts," Cobb says of the door, and, "uneven floorboards" on the tipping chair.

That night though, Arthur can't walk down a hall or go to the bathroom for a pee without some kind of chill following him everywhere. Eames sees him looking over his shoulder constantly, sees the goosebumps raised on his skin.

Arthur wakes up in the middle of the night naked. His clothes are turned inside out and scattered at the foot of the bed. He appears in the doorway of Eames's room at 2 AM, scaring the shit out of him. Stark naked, dazed, and so pale that Eames thinks at first that _he's_ the ghost.

Conceding defeat to the house, Arthur crawls into bed with him. Eames is shocked (and intrigued) to see his back covered in half-moon nail shapes, all fresh, a few bloody.

"Arthur..."

"Don't even ask."

** ** ** **

"It didd'd hate be," Arthur says, shuddering against Eames's side in the hotel bed. "It loved be."

"That was the job that ended up with you getting pneumonia," Eames recalls. "Like it was a curse."

Startled, he turns to face Arthur in the bed, drawing his knees up under him. Arthur just stares at him, one eyebrow raised. A trickle of blood runs down his forehead and he swipes it away.

"That's it," Eames says.

"What."

"You always getting whumped. It's a curse." Eames bangs his fist into his open palm with an air or revelation. "You're cursed, Arthur."

Arthur scowly-faces him again. He doesn't have to say _'You're insane'_ because his face says it.

"You're idsade," Arthur says anyway.

"I'm logical. Arthur, think about it. You're competent. You're powerful. You can outwit just about anyone. You're quick, you think on your feet, and you're the best at what you do. You're about the biggest BAMF there is, and yet you're always the one, out of everyone, getting whumped. _Why_?"

"That's... that's just..."

"When you have excluded the impossible," Eames quotes, "whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. "

"That's..."

"Man can believe the impossible, but man can never believe the improbable."

"Oscar Wilde," Arthur says. "Eabes..."

"Probable impossibilities are to be preferred to improbable possibilities."

Arthur turns toward him, pupils blown wide. Okay, yes, that could be because of head trauma from getting massively fucking owned by a mack truck, and that's not really all too sexually arousing, in fact it is instead quite alarming, but...

"Aristotle," Arthur breathes. Or he tries for breathy, anyway, but then turns his head to cough up a little more blood. "You're so fuggig hot," he says when he turns back. His teeth are smeared with blood.

"You need an exorcism," Eames says.

Arthur stares. And stares. Stares a little more. His eyes are wide, bloodshot, still a little watery. Slowly, and a little painfully, he smiles at Eames. "Okay, sure. But after I brush by teeth."

** ** ** **

"Uh, uh..." Arthur pants, or tries to pant. It comes out more like a snuffle. His face is pressed into the pillow. "This hurts by dose."

"Sorry," Eames says. He hooks an arm under Arthur's chest and gently pulls him back up.

"By fuggig arb wod'd hold be up."

"Your arm still hurts?" Eames asks, dazed. Fuck, his _dick_ hurts. But that's what happens every time he bends Arthur over and starts working him over - even, apparently, when Arthur is cursed, Mack-trucked, bleeding onto the pillows, and in need of exorcism.

Arthur leans back against him, panting. Eames runs his hands down Arthur's arms. The one that got clipped by the out of control truck is bruised almost black.

"This is your eggsorcisb? Fuggig be?"

"I've got to drive the evil spirits out of your flesh," Eames says. He nuzzles behind Arthur's ear. Arthur smells like asphalt even after a shower.

Arthur breathes out a little laugh. "The power of cog cobbels you."

"If by 'cog' you mean 'cock.'"

"Ha," Arthur laughs. "Dot fuddy."

"Maybe it would work better on your back. Can you breathe?"

"Sure. Edough to live, addyway."

"Good enough," Eames says, and gently eases Arthur over onto his back. He actually really hates that Arthur is all banged up like this. He'd shoot the mack truck in the face, if it had one. And if it hadn't already jack-knifed and broken in two. God. He can't believe it. Arthur getting clipped like that, careening off into a parking meter before Eames could catch him. Fucking insane, that's what it was. Fucking cursed.

"Well?" Arthur says.

"Right. Well." Eames runs his hands up the insides of Arthur's thighs. Thin, faded scars still line them. Burns, lacerations, an old bullet wound. He leans down and presses his mouth to the bullet scar first. "Um. In spiritu sanctum. Out, damned spot," he says.

Arthur squirms. "That's Bacbeth."

"Oh. Right." He flattens his tongue softly against the scar and licks up, gentle, light. "Depart, accursed demon," he whispers when he reaches the juncture between Arthur's thighs. "Release this servant from the fetters of sin."

Arthur pants heavily, wet in the back of his throat. It's kind of not sexy but it kind of is, too. "I like the fedders of sid," he says. His hands toy with Eames's hair. His thighs shake when Eames spreads them further apart. "Oh, god..."

"Out, deceitful curse," Eames says, lapping gently, then swallowing Arthur suddenly. Arthur's hips jerk up, out of his control. Eames backs off again, and lifts Arthur's thighs over his shoulders. "I decree, with laying my hands on this body, that this is my temple."

"Fuck, oh fuck, oh Jesus," Arthur says, when Eames gets back to work with his mouth. His heels slide down Eames's back, sweat covers him in a light sheen. His breath is labored, harsh on the exhale.

"Relax, sweetheart," Eames mouths against the back of his thigh. "Those terrible demons within you need release. And I need. Umm. Holy water."

Arthur hums in agreement, shakes beneath him.

"Have you got...holy water?" Eames gently puts Arthur's thighs back down and sits back on his heels between them.

"What? What?" Arthur looks around, dazed.

"You know," Eames prompts. " _Holy water._ "

"I dod't dow what the fug... Oh. _Oh._ Suitcase."

Eames groans. He hates leaving the warm, welcoming cradle of Arthur's thighs, always has. But needs must, and he does, leaving Arthur momentarily alone on the bed, still splayed and waiting. And scowling again.

Eames returns, fingers already slick. But before he gets back to work, he takes hold of Arthur's foot. Kisses the bottom of it. Works his way up the arch, and then wraps his lips around the inside of his ankle, sucking.

Arthur makes a broken, cut-off sound in the back of his throat. While he's busy feeling confused and needy and aroused, Eames creeps his fingers back between his thighs, slips them in. Arthur arches again, surprised.

"Now," Eames says, "oh cursed one, release this servant, release this hostage to evil."

"Oh god, what are you playig at?" Arthur gasps. "Fug this eggsorsisb shit. Just... Please. _Please._ "

Eames grins down at him, his Arthur, so straightforward. Begging, he thinks, sounds much more appealing when Arthur isn't doing it through a broken face. But he takes what he can get. "Oh, now that's just the evil spirits in you talking," he teases. "Wouldn't they love me to stop?" He moves his fingers, finds exactly what he's looking for. He knows his way around Arthur so well.

Arthur's body jerks, hips lifting off the bed, and he sobs.

"I've got to drive the wicked influence out of you, haven't I?"

"Yes, yes," Arthur says. His hands reach out for Eames, trying to hook his arms, his shoulders, and pull him down.

"Look at how this curse torments you," Eames says. "Poor lamb."

He knows he can't lean his full weight on Arthur, since a mack truck already almost did that earlier and he doesn't want to add to it. So instead he angles his hips, then grabs Arthur by the hips and pulls him closer.

Arthur leans up on his good arm and watches as Eames slides in, as he slips his arm under the sharp arch of Arthur's back until they're flush against each other. Arthur's eyes are wide, his mouth open and panting. His cheeks are flushed and damp. A tiny trickle of blood runs from a scratch the side of his face. Eames can see the beating of his heart beneath his ribs; it shakes his whole frame. Can feel the pulse of his body around him.

He wants to say, ' _Easy, pet, don't let me hurt you,'_ but he can't speak, so he just moves.

Arthur drops back against the bed and takes it, like he always does. So reliable.

It isn't evil spirits that Eames forces out of him after all, that coat his stomach and chest. And Arthur can't scream as the release hits him, because his throat is too raw. He can't lift his head much to watch Eames finish either – probably the whiplash is starting to catch up.

"Fuck, Arthur, Christ, god, fuck, yes," Eames gasps, leaning over him now, but careful not to lean _on_ him still. Even while fucking Arthur, coming inside of him, he's aware that he doesn't want to hurt him even worse.

Arthur takes a hell of a whumping, but Eames doesn't want to be the one giving it to him.

** ** ** **

He's petting Arthur on the bed later, as Arthur tries to get comfortable enough to sleep. It's about 3 AM when Eames says, "I think it worked."

"What." Arthur asks a question like a statement sometimes, and Eames kind of likes that.

"The exorcism."

Arthur shifts against him. "You cad't be serious."

Well, he isn't, and he laughs a little to prove it. He kind of is not serious. Kind of. Arthur is quiet for a second. Then:

"You're serious?"

Eames pets his curly silky hair, kisses the top of his head. Arthur's hair still tastes a little like diesel fuel. "No, of course I'm not serious," Eames tells him.

Arthur settle back down against his side.

But actually, Arthur is breathing a little easier. The bleeding's stopped. He seems in less pain.

It's not _entirely_ inconceivable that there'd been some kind of curse on him, some spell of bad luck. They invade dreams for a living, for fuck's sake, which seems like something impossible, rather than improbable, and yet there it is. So is it really so hard to imagine? To believe?

And if so, is it that much of a leap that Eames could heal him with his cock? Maybe there is something special to it. Maybe all it would take is his _intent_ to drive it away. Sure. He's fond of Arthur, the silly bastard who gets himself clawed by cats, kidnapped, poisoned, haunted, stung by wasps, hit by mack fucking trucks. Eames cares about him. Maybe he really has fucked the bad mojo out of him.

Well, he guesses he will never know for sure.

But when the next job comes around, and the one after that, and Arthur _doesn't_ get whumped, he's got to at least consider the possibility that it really did work.

And the best possible course of action is to keep making certain, with repeat treatments, that the curse never has a chance to return.  
** ** ** **


End file.
